


if she drowns, she’s innocent (if she lives, she’s guilty)

by SarcasticSunshine



Series: Short Stories [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, I make up my own lore, It’s not stated, Revenge, Witchcraft, Witches, Women Were Oppressed (and still are in many ways), Worldbuilding, but I’m pretty sure we all know how it ends, i guess, what do I even tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:07:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29964075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarcasticSunshine/pseuds/SarcasticSunshine
Summary: “Before we were called witches,” she continued, voice becoming soft and mocking. “Before they scorned and hunted us, telling us we had no right to do the things we did. Before they began to chase us down and drown us - burn us alive. Before men decided they feared us - before they called us witches - we were called goddesses.”(Or, the story of a woman who holds the magic of her ancestors in her bones, and the spirits of the past have come to take their revenge.)
Series: Short Stories [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2187666
Kudos: 2





	if she drowns, she’s innocent (if she lives, she’s guilty)

She lingered back into the shadows, observing the priest as he slowly came to. People told her revenge was useless - that all it did infected you and slowly degraded your soul. They said that seeking revenge made you just as bad as the person you wanted revenge on. She never understood that. Maybe it was because she held the blood of women who’d been revered as goddesses in her veins, and gods were almost never benevolent. Maybe it was because she’d never cared about being a good person in the first place. Maybe it was because she thought it didn’t matter in the end - that everything was judged and weighed in such a way that mortals could not understand it.

“I would stop struggling if I were you,” she spoke softly, the man - now wide awake - pausing in his struggles for a moment before going back to trying to tug at the ropes. She watched on for a little bit, and then almost laughed as he began whispering prayers that echoed in the cavern. “I would also stop praying. There are no gods here but me.”

“Bah,” he hissed, looking around wildly, trying to find her in the shadows. “You are nothing but a child playing at a game you know nothing about.” The way he spoke was filled with venom and flame - an anger he believed righteous burning in his eyes. She moved slowly to behind him, and placed her hand over his eyes, neither her cloak nor her worn leather boots making noise on the stone floor.

“I assure you, Priest,” she said in his ear, feeling a laugh try to tug it’s way out of her chest. “I am far more knowledgeable in this game than you are.” He stiffened and tried to pull out of her grip, but she did not let go, but instead drew him closer.

“You are a witch,” he whispered, the hatred of a boy bleeding into a man’s voice. “You are a demon come to entrance men away from the god who would protect them, you’ve come to try and drag us into hell for your master. I swear once I am out of these ropes you will rue the day you tried to mess with me, witch.” This time she let the laugh rise in her chest and spill out of her mouth. It wasn’t a joyous laugh, nor was it empty. It was a laugh full of derision and spite.

“Do you know what they used to call witches, little man?” She crooned, letting go of him and moving around to face him, her hand coming up once again to rest on the side of his face. She grinned a sharp grin - one she learned from the wolves and from the monsters that lingered in the shadows. She noticed how his eyes fell onto her teeth, gazing at the way the light glinted off the canine-likeness they bore. There was a look of fear inside the anger in his eyes, and a sense of satisfaction rose and settled in her breastbone.

“Before we were called witches,” she continued, voice becoming soft and mocking. “Before they scorned and hunted us, telling us we had no right to do the things we did. Before they began to chase us down and drown us - burn us alive. Before men decided they feared us - before they called us witches - we were called goddesses.”

It was almost effortless, the way she called upon the magic that sang in her blood, that choursed in her bones. It dimmed the lanterns flickering along the room, creating a soft, dancing wind. There were faint cries of children, of women screaming their fury to the sky. The Priest drew in a shaky breath and flinched, eyes darting around wildly, trying to find the source of the noise. She drew closer and closer until their noses almost touched and whispered into the sliver of space between them,

“Hera never flinched from the words of a mortal man, so why should we?” She knew her eyes burned with the fever that overcame the women who carried the magic, and she looked almost craized. She could not find it in herself to care.

It wasn’t much to blow out the quickly dimming fires and reach forward to touch her hand to his temple. She had much work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the idea of a dunking stool during the witch trials, where they would tie a woman to a stool and hold her underwater. If she died she was innocent, if she lived, she was guilty of being a witch.


End file.
